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to the memory of my friend SI-YA-U, whose head was cut off in ShanghaiA CLAIMRenowned Leonardo’sworld-famous”La Gioconda”has disappeared.And in the spacevacated by the fugitivea copy has been placed.The poet inscribingthe present treatiseknows more than a littleabout the fateof the real…
To overcome lies in the heart, in the streets, in the booksfrom the lullabies of the mothersto the news report that the speaker reads,understanding, my love, what a great joy it is,to understand what is gone and what is on…
We are by the watersidethe plane tree and I.Our reflections are thrown on the waterthe plane tree’s and mine.The sparkle of the water hits usthe plane tree and me.We are by the watersidethe plane tree, I and the cat.Our reflections…
I was born in 1902I never once went back to my birthplaceI don’t like to turn backat three I served as a pasha’s grandson in Aleppoat nineteen as a student at Moscow Communist Universityat forty-nine I was back in Moscow…
If half my heart is here, doctor, the other half is in Chinawith the army flowing toward the Yellow River.And, every morning, doctor,every morning at sunrise my heart is shot in Greece.And every night, doctor,when the prisoners are asleep and…
Awake.Where are you?At home.Still unaccustomed—awake or sleeping—to being in your own home.This is just one more of the stupefactionsof spending thirteen years in a prison.Who’s lying at your side?Not loneliness, but your wife,in the peaceful sleep of an angel.Pregnancy looks…
I have no silver-saddled horse to ride,no inheritance to live on,neither riches no real-estate—a pot of honey is all I own.A pot of honey red as fire!My honey is my everything.I guardmy riches and my real-estate—my honey pot, I mean—from…
Taut, thick fingers punchthe teeth of my typewriter.Three words are down on paper in capitals:SPRING SPRING SPRING…And me—poet, proofreader,the man who’s forced to readtwo thousand bad lines every day for two liras—why, since spring has come, am I still sitting…
You waste the attention of your eyes,the glittering labour of your hands,and knead the dough enough for dozens of loavesof which you’ll taste not a morsel;you are free to slave for others—you are free to make the rich richer. The…
Your soul is a river my sweetheart,flowing from up there, through the mountainstowards the plain,towards the plain but never reaching itnever reaching to join the willow trees in their sleep;never reaching the comfort of the wide arches of the bridges,…